


Empty Reasons

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: The Files [3]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Abstract exercise, Gen, set after "the Files" story Equilibrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is home?</p><p>After confinement they seek solace, seeking safety and the familiar never mind it's not safe anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Reasons

" _Ambition is a sacrifice born of reasons. To strive, to sacrifice, no one goes through loss willingly without a reason_." Tseng of the Turks.

Walking home, heels clicking upon man-made stone, she dreams of destruction. The scent of fire, of soot, is the sweetest perfume. Rarely indulged, yet savored all the more for its scarcity. Taking a deep breath of what the short sighted call filth she makes here way home, a tool of destruction resting in one hand, the scent of death teasing her nostrils.

Home… is detained for one. He lingers -as always- over panels and symbols. Falling from his lips, lingering in his mind like a miasma of chemicals, are words so complex that it bends the mind to comprehend them. His mind is bent, distorted, a contortionist’s dream come true. Mako fueled lights paint his pasty white face a sickly green, his heavy eyelids slid shut under the silent lullaby offered by that familiar light. He takes comfort from the glow as if it were a blanket draped over his frame by a loving hand.

First to come and first to go, such rigidity is one of the few marks of his militant upbringing. Oblivious of his state of grossness, he descents as he ascended years ago; with a scowl on his features and malice in his gaze. The few who get in his way are shoved aside, stepped upon. The tread of his footfall, like the shoes that encompass his mammoth feet, are of the military order. First class.

For some, going is the same as coming. Every step is dogged by duty, and to that realization he sighs. Such a cruel thing is duty that it has wrung a sly, slippery, intellect dry. Unaware of his loss he imagines himself at his peak, his form perfect. The fires of his passion and rage run as one, consuming even as he draws deep upon the fumes of depredation and opulence.

His ideals of home are alien, not forgotten nor forsaken as a few below him believe. But it is alien, to its core. A thing of openness, denied opulence, and starkness. He takes comfort from the lack of comfort, and is innocent of the dichotomy of his "home". He starts the path away, polished boots clicking on an echoing earthen path. But like the dark that mars the sky his duty lingers, a celestial made mantle. Light, but not forgotten, and impossible to forsake.

 


End file.
